


Down the Drain

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Other, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Pregnant Sex, Shower Sex, This Is What Happened Instead Of HLV, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:31:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, and Mary share a shower. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down the Drain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/gifts).



> This fic is a Springlock gift for mistyzeo. Mistyzeo, thank you so much for the joy-inducing prompt. :D
> 
> Much gratitude to toomanystarstocount for the A&E joke, aderyn for the soap and cheerleading, and Shiny for runnin' this joint. <3

Water drums on the ceramic tub as Sherlock, gloating as only a very clever man who has outwitted his very clever wife can gloat, rinses Mary’s shampoo from his hair.

There’s a knock at the door (small hand--a woman’s--firm enough to indicate resolve, and gentle enough to indicate a desire not to disturb him) as he works his conditioner into his curls. The hinges creak (briefly--the door’s still mostly closed--Mary is, in all likelihood, peering around it), and Mary calls, “Sherlock?”

 _Damn._ “What?”

“How long are you going to be in there?”

She needs the bathroom: _double damn_. “Until I’m finished.”

“You know what I mean, smartarse.” Mary closes the door behind her. Porcelain clinks against porcelain as she sits on the closed toilet lid. “I really need to shower.”

Sherlock lets the warm water run down his chest as he thinks. He’s rinsed his hair free of the evidence, and he put the bottle back exactly where it was, right down to the gummy residue ring that Mary will no doubt complain about, so he doesn’t fear discovery… he could, in fact, treat this as an opportunity. “So shower.”

“While you’re still in there?” She tilts her head, Sherlock’s sure of it.

He grins and rinses out the conditioner. “Well, I’m certainly not getting out.”

Pyjamas land on tile, and the shower curtain’s rings rattle. “Budge over,” Mary says as she steps in behind Sherlock. She lightly slaps his arse as she edges past him, then-- _shit_ \--looks down at the drain.

The accursedly ancient, annoyingly slow, purple-foam-ringed drain.

“Did you use my shampoo?!” Mary says, her voice high and indignant.

 _Bollocks._ “It’s better than mine.”

“Not for your hair, it isn’t. It’s purple, and anyway, it doesn’t matter if it’s better, what matters is that it’s _mine_.”

Sherlock shivers; Mary stands under the water, rivulets running down her face. Her skin is pale where her swimsuit covered it during the Sex Holiday. “Really, Mary,” Sherlock says, “it’s more of a violet. I like it. It gives my hair a sort of… sheen.”

Mary wrinkles her nose as she squirts shampoo into her palm. “God, this bathtub is vile. And ‘violet?’ ‘Sheen?’ Sherlock Holmes, you’ve been watching makeover shows again.”

He has. “I have not!”

“Knew you were lying when you said you’d stopped watching crap telly,” Mary grins as she works up a lather.

Sherlock scowls. “Why are you mauling your scalp in that barbaric fashion?”

“Funny,” she says, unfazed, “I call it ‘washing my hair.’”

“You’re doing it wrong,” he lies. “Here.” He massages her scalp with both hands, rubbing slow circles as her eyelids flutter.

Mary hums. “Feels lovely.”

Her breathing picks up, her shoulders relax, and her nipples harden despite the warmth of the shower: “You’re aroused.”

“That’s a good deduction, yeah.”

Curious, Sherlock checks in with his transport: his heart is beating faster than normal, his nipples feel sensitive, and his cock is _…_ “ _I’m_ aroused.”

“Most women would be hurt that you’re surprised,” Mary teases, gentle. She looks down to keep the water out of her eyes as Sherlock rinses her hair clean and applies her conditioner. It smells of roses.

“Fortunately for everyone involved, I didn’t marry most women.” He kisses her forehead, and she holds him close, turning them so the water warms his back. His cock grazes the soft skin of her belly; her breasts, already larger after two months of pregnancy, press against his ribs.

“I wish John would let us be open about you,” Mary says, one hand sliding between them and-- _oh_ \--around his cock. “Not letting you dance with us at the wedding, not getting you a ring… it isn’t right. Though he really does think you don’t want a ring, Sherlock.”

He does want one. Aches for one, physically, behind and beneath his sternum, but he can’t seem to find words. Sherlock--won’t think about it, deletes the memory of the pain, works a hand between Mary’s legs. Strokes her soft, dark hair until her labia part. Her clit is slick and full, and when his fingertips tease it, she inhales hard and rests her forehead on his chest.

“We’ll talk him ’round,” Sherlock murmurs. Their hands, their hips, match rhythms. He should wash the conditioner from her hair, but as long as they don’t stop, they’re both going to--.

John knocks. “Sherlock,” he calls, swinging open the bathroom door as Mary steps away with a mock-scandalised grin and rinses her hair, “have you seen Mary? I told her I’d go with her to the gyno this afternoon, but I forgot when the appointment is.”

“Yes, I’ve seen her, and you’re leaving at half three,” Sherlock says, sounding for all the world like Mary isn’t lathering a washcloth with lavender soap and mouthing _let’s fuck him_.

John’s not stupid, and Mary’s pyjamas are on the bathroom floor, which means it won’t be long before--“Are you alone in there?”

Mary rinses soap suds from her skin. Winks. “Nope.”

John--Sherlock doesn’t have to see it to be certain of it--purses his lips. “Why am I out here?”

“We were about to ask you the same thing,” Sherlock says. John’s shoes have barely clattered to the floor when John, naked and half-hard, steps in; Sherlock moves aside so John can stand between him and Mary. “I suppose we can thank the Army for how fast you undress.”

“What was it you said about soldiers, Sherlock?” John says. “All the nice girls like them?”

John kisses Sherlock, then Mary, full on the lips. Mary runs the washcloth over John’s chest and Sherlock’s hands slide down John’s back, gentle over the scar tissue even though John swears it isn’t sensitive.

“Not just the girls, apparently,” Mary adds as Sherlock’s hands cup, then squeeze, John’s arse.

Sherlock smirks when John moans. He takes the cloth from Mary and washes John’s back, his arse, his legs and what’s between them. “Are you calling me ‘nice?’”

Mary raises an eyebrow. “On the same day that I caught you using my shampoo? Not bloody likely.”

“Ooh, the purple one?” John laughs as he stands under the spray. “You’ve done it now, Drama Queen.”

“It’s violet,” Sherlock sulks.

John shakes his head. “It’s Mary’s, is what it is.”

“A third of it’s mine.” Sherlock washes himself and rinses. “Isn’t that how marriage works?”

John rolls one of Mary’s nipples between his teeth. “Not if you want to stay married, it’s not.”

Sherlock’s alarm must show on his face, because Mary, short of breath, says, “He’s teasing, darling. We aren’t going anywhere.”

John turns to look at Sherlock. Looks back at Mary. “How did you…?”

“Know what he was thinking?” Mary shrugs. “It was obvious.”

John shakes his head as his hand vanishes between Mary’s legs; Mary gasps. “You two are brilliant,” John says. “You practically read each other’s minds. God knows why you keep me around.”

Sherlock nips the curve where John’s neck and shoulder meet and rocks his erection against the small of John’s back. “We weren’t going to,” he jokes, reaching around John’s body to stroke John’s cock, “but you got Mary pregnant, and now we’re stuck with you.”

John--John must not have understood, because he stills, and Mary kisses him and says, “He’s teasing, John. Honestly, the pair of you. You’re stupid-in-love, you’d do anything for each other, and you’re the only two people who can’t see it. I’m the one who’s superfluous, really.”

Sherlock blinks. He can feel John’s pulse in his hand. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, it is. I mean, I love you both--couldn’t imagine life without either of you--but you’re lovely, and I’d go mad if you weren’t here,” John says, his free hand brushing Mary’s hair from her forehead. He tilts his head toward Sherlock. “He’s a pain in the arse.”

“It’s true,” Sherlock agrees, John’s back smooth and warm against his cock, John’s cock smooth and warm in his hand, “I am. Though now that we’ve established that we are in fact all necessary to each other, can we please concentrate on sex? My erection is dying of boredom.”

Mary smiles, and John says, “Yeah, but we’re moving this into the bedroom unless you want at least one of us to end up as the laugh of the day at the A&E.”

“Not particularly, no.” Sherlock turns around and turns off the water. “Everybody out!”

“Someone’s in a hurry,” Mary teases. She pulls the curtain open, and all three of them step out, take a towel from the rack, and dry themselves off.

“ _Someone_ would already have had an orgasm if he’d been left to shower in peace,” Sherlock gripes, dropping his wet towel on the bathroom floor before he strides into the bedroom and sprawls across the duvet.

John joins him, kneeling between Sherlock’s legs and sliding his hands up Sherlock’s thighs as Mary rummages through the nightstand drawer. “And instead, the two people you love most are going to shag you senseless. Day really went pear-shaped, didn’t it?”

“Sarcasm, John, is the last refuge of a weak”--John’s hand, then John’s mouth, surround Sherlock’s cock--“ _oh_.”

John feigns confusion. “‘Oh?’” He sets a slow, steady rhythm, his tongue shifting against the head of Sherlock’s cock, his mouth--his warm, wet mouth--sucking… sucking….

“Oh God,” Sherlock manages, his eyelids fluttering, “that, keep doing--that’s-- _God_.”

Mary joins them on the bed and kneels behind John, who moans what sounds like _oh God yes:_ Mary’s wearing the Feeldoe, then. John moans again, louder ( _there’s the lube_ , Sherlock thinks), and Mary, her lips to John’s ear, says, “Do you want me to prep you, love?”

“No, just--if you go slow, that should be--oh, Jesus.” John’s face goes red as Mary penetrates him. His hand leaves Sherlock’s cock so he can steady himself on Sherlock’s thighs; Sherlock has to concentrate to keep himself from coming at the thought of John’s arse slick with lube and stretched around the toy as John sighs, “Oh, Mary.”

Mary, her eyes on John’s arse, works one hand between her legs and holds John’s hip with the other. Her mouth falls open; her head tilts back: her first orgasm, silent and nearly enough to cause Sherlock’s. “Do you need a minute,” she says, her voice breathy, “or can I--?”

“Yeah, go ahead, move.” John tilts his hips to take her deeper, then reaches one hand behind him and wiggles his fingers. “ _Oh_. Oh, fuck, give me the lube, I want to….”

Sherlock, instead of doing something as pedestrian as saying _so do I_ , spreads his legs wider, folds a pillow in two, and tucks it under his arse.

There’s lube, cool on his exposed skin, and John’s fingertips, warm on the insides of his thighs, before John pushes two slick fingers into him-- _good_ \--and says, his voice low, “I’m going to make you come all over yourself, and Mary’s going to make me come all over you.”

Sherlock blinks, wondering if his mind’s complete and utter system failure is visible from the outside. “I won’t last if you keep talking like that.”

John grins. There’s something wolfish and wild about it. “I don’t want you to last,” he says, and slides his lips down Sherlock’s cock until he nuzzles Sherlock’s curls.

John’s mouth is warm, and his fingers are firm as they stroke the swollen, sensitive spot over Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock looks at Mary, who’s flushed, panting, moving her hand on John’s cock to the same rhythm John’s setting on Sherlock, _in_ him, and Mary looks at him, mouths _you’re gorgeous_ , and Sherlock--Sherlock--.

John moves his face away before Sherlock comes, keening, in stripes across his own chest and belly.

Sherlock rolls onto his hands and knees as Mary grabs hold of John’s hips and fucks him hard; Sherlock watches over his shoulder as John strokes himself, his hand moving faster and faster, murmuring _oh, oh_ until he chokes out, “Oh, fuck, Mary, I--.”

Sherlock doesn’t see John come, but he feels it-- _yes_ \--when wet heat spatters across his arse.

Sex-dazed, hormone-flooded, Sherlock lets John lay him down. He curls onto his side and watches as Mary, now sans Feeldoe, lies on her back next to him. John kisses her cheeks, her breasts, her belly, cups her arse as he lowers his face between her legs. Sherlock holds Mary’s hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles as she arches her back and writhes: John sucks, licks hard, nuzzles, murmurs, “God, I want you,” and Mary bucks against his face, her hand squeezing Sherlock’s, as she shouts ( _John, oh my God, John_ ) and comes.

Mary rolls onto her side as John lies down on his back between her and Sherlock and puts an arm around each of them. Sherlock and Mary each rest one arm across John’s body, and the three of them catch their breath together. Sherlock presses kisses to John’s skin as Mary rubs her foot along Sherlock’s shin and John caresses Sherlock’s back.

“Fuck,” Mary says, sounding sleepy and slow, “we have to get ready for that gyno appointment.”

“Bollocks,” John mumbles.

Mary looks at Sherlock across John and lifts her eyebrows: _tell him you want a ring_. Sherlock wants to, but he--he--.

“You coming to the appointment?” John asks. “I was thinking, if you were coming anyway, we might, um, we might see about getting you fitted for a ring. To match mine and Mary’s. If you wanted one.” Sherlock is too stunned to answer, and John, who can’t read his silences the way Mary can, adds, “Never mind, it was a stupid suggestion. I know how you feel about--.”

“Yes,” Sherlock manages. He stares at Mary-- _you did this, didn’t you?_ \--and she winks back at him-- _of course_. “To the appointment, and, the, ah. The ring.”

John kisses the top of Sherlock’s head. “Right. Suppose people will talk, once word gets out about us, but….” John shrugs and kisses Sherlock again.

“They do little else,” Sherlock says, unable to hide his grin, “but first, we really should shower.”

 


End file.
